“Got yourself a live one!”

Vincent stopped in the doorway. Rolling the rope tighter around his hand, the other extended a cattle prod towards the stranger. Lightning arched between the prongs. Captive and captor stared at the man. Older. A little stout and not much taller than Vincent. Albeit he was a familiar face, coated by a neatly groomed white beard. Heavy eyes burdened by the passage of time and squinting crows’ feet crept along cheeks peered out from under the shade of a cowboy’s hat. Far too well dressed to be some Westside local, but not well enough to rub elbows with the strip elite. Didn’t look the type to want to, anyway.

“He’s my bounty,” Vincent warned.

“Just making an observation.” Weathered and thick fingers pinched the brim of his hat. Amber creases cracked the well-worn molasses leather. “Not interested in huntin’ no more.” A dusty pair of brown boots slowly followed the young man. Yanking along the captive to a quiet securitron waiting door side, Vincent stole a glance over his shoulder. He’d seen this man somewhere before, but not on a bounty poster. “How’s ya do it? Didn’t think ole Tandy would go down without a fight.”

“I’m creative when I’m angry. Goodbye.”

“You even interrogate him?”

“Interrogate him?” The securitron raised a claw. Vincent tied the rope to its steel fingers, braving the sneers and imaginative insults from the foul-odor bandit without a flinch. “I already have him.”

“You ain’t even curious about what he knows?” The old man leaned against the stucco wall. It was another decrepit apartment building on the west side that could Vincent lift up the roof, the occupants would scurry like roaches once the sun shined down. “Who he knows?” The stranger crossed arms over a bland sable vest while he stared down the outlaw, “Well where’s ya friend Samuel Lamont? Black-Smoke? Yeah, you didn’t know he rolls with the baddest of the bad out here.”

“Shut up old man!” Tandy growled, baring stained teeth, each sharpened to a point.

“Hush.” Vincent jabbed the cattle prod in Tandy’s side. The men are speaking.” Tady seized, groaning through a clenched jaw as eyes bulged. Before getting out another word, a second zap silenced Tandy. Then a third for daring to speak at all. And maybe a fourth for—

“You done?”

Vincent lowered the prod and looked back to the stranger. “I’m listening.”

“These types stick to each other,” he explained. Aged eyes wandered over to the securitron, looking it up and down as the machine hoisted the pacified man in its arms. “You find one, well he leads you to two more and so on. Some ain’t even bounties yet.”

Vincent sighed. “If they aren’t bounties yet…” He flipped out the sunglasses from their vest pocket. Black lenses returned the old man’s reflection to him. “Why do I care?”

“Oh, I think you do care,” he retorted. Hands gripped the belt holding up a pair of faded blue jeans. A large brass buckle glinted in the sun, outlining the ridges and valleys carved into the intricate piece.

Vincent laughed. “You have no idea what I want. Bother someone else, old man.” Keen eyes scouted the distance as he waved the securitron along. What a silly assumption. As if anyone knew what he could possibly want or need. His own mother didn’t. Clearly Lawrence didn’t and that was the closest anyone had ever gotten to him in ages.

“I doubt you was lookin’ for opportunity down the road when you got in between that girl and some shady folks in Freeside.”

Vincent’s boots paused chewing gravel. He spun around, half hidden by the securitron between them. “You been following me?”

“I was curious about ya,” the stranger shrugged. “Seen you around Freeside collectin’ those posters. Thought you was awfully young to be gettin’ into this life.” Gunmetal chilled Vincent’s palm. Glances darted around the scene, lingering on the old man with every pass. A trap? Was there more waiting among the ruins—The stranger their ringleader? Had he really made a name for himself as a bounty hunter already?

“Relax, I ain’t here to hurt ya.” Casually, the stranger closed the distance between them. Vincent glanced to a silver revolver stowed in the old man’s sun-bleached holster. “You ain’t a bad apple even if you got that half-ton chip in your shoulder. See from my perspective, you’re doin this for the same reason I did.”

Vincent’s scowl narrowed. He stepped out from the securitron’s protection. It’d take more than one foolhardy old cowboy to stand boot-to-boot with him, let alone a securitron. “That scar ain’t some casual business either.” He paused to take off the hat and fan himself. Brilliant silver crescents squinted under bushy, peppered brows. “We all get knocked down out here, but it’s how you pick yourself up and carry on after that makes a man.”

“Now I remember you,” Vincent muttered, his shoulders relaxing as his hand slipped away from his pistol. The old man was one of many faces at the bar of the Baron’s Bull. Kept to himself mostly, but wasn’t shy about finding a conversation, usually with the bartender or other regulars. Then he joined the blackjack table. Stole the empty seat right next to Vincent. “I heard you used to be some bounty hunter. Famous too. Supposedly.”

“The name’s Wayne. Wayne Everett Hanson.” The old man extended his hand. Fine lined and creased, leathery, tanned—a working man’s hands. At least he was honest, so far. Vincent shook his hand, a polite nod following but his suspicion was still obvious. “I used to be a sheriff. Small town down south from the Boneyard. The nature of that beast is that it attracts a lot of unsavory folks to your person. One of them ended up killing my wife, my son. Then I became that famous bounty hunter.”

Vincent turned back to the road as he kept a scarred eye on the old man, wondering why he’d admit something like that. “Retirement not treating you well?”

Wayne laughed. Walking at the boy’s side, he followed an unknown destination with one securitron and one malcontent hostage in tow. “Sure ain’t as thrillin’ as trackin’ down dirtbag-of-the-week. I’m old though and I ain’t blind to that.”

“Well, if you know a thing or two—aside from those stories you’re always droning on about at the bar—then maybe I’ll listen.”

“Hah!” The old man huffed. “You don’t like my stories?”

“Didn’t say that,” Vincent muttered, staring out at the horizon. To the north were little colored blots of farmhouses, and their expansive fields sitting at the foothills of a mountain range he once visited with Lawrence, and a vault lost to time in those fading hills as distant as those memories of his were. 

“Well, ya didn’t ‘ave to.”

Vincent glanced at Wayne, resuming his evaluation of the area. Opposite those foothills was Westside. Squatters’ and vagrants’ homes made in the bones of an old city. It was quiet during the day, but don’t let that get your guard down. “You just repeat them is all…”

“That’s ‘cause I can still wrangle in an audience.”

 “More like your audience just don’t remember. Drinking that industrial cleaner you call whiskey ought to kill a few brain cells.”

“Hey.” Wayne’s boots halted. Vincent’s slowed to a stop too and looked back. “That’s where I draw the line. You don’t bring a man’s drink into a civil dispute, alright?” Vincent laughed. Grinning widely like he used to with a different cowboy. “You youngins ain’t got no respect nowadays.”

Concrete thickened under tread. Tightly packed remnants of buildings, renovated, repurposed, and rebuilt by the independent community to the north of the strip was safer, but not any brighter of a future. With the talkative retiree, miles passed by faster than his feet counted. At the first sight of a taxi-wagon, Vincent put the driver on hold. Generous caps trickled down a slot punched in the box mounted to the front hurried up the journey.

“These things been poppin’ up like weeds,” Wayne remarked. He plucked off his hat and sprawled out on the bench once under the shade of an umbrella. Aged eyes examined the wagon. A pat of the planks evaluated the craftsmanship and grain; the wagon was a simple thing of salvaged wood and other materials that held two benches facing each other between the walls. All attached to one very eager driver on a bike. “Thought you had a fancy two-wheeler machine.”

“It’s getting prepped for my next mission.”

Once in Freeside, you’d know just by the look of it. Not as cleaned up as Westside. No, Freeside was a work in progress. A resilient, but stubborn bunch of tasks on Vincent’s long to-do list around the city. When the wagon stopped curbside, the driver was panting and glistening under streams of sweat seeping down his head and barely able to mouth gratuity for the second helping of caps dropped in his box.

“Kings are an odd bunch,” Wayne remarked, staring at the gang’s headquarters plopped on the corner where they stood. “What ya doing here?”

“Dropping off dirtbag-of-the-week.”

“Oh, come on, man!” Tandy whined. He flailed in the securitron’s grasp, huffing and grimacing like a child threatening to cry.

“Just gon’ hand him over?” Peppered brows bunched together as Wayne observed the young man take control of the captive. “What for?”

“He wronged one of the King’s men,” Vincent explained. “It’s personal. So, I’m handing him over to them.” 

Vincent led the securitron to the door, garnering the attention of the King’s subjects. Conversations paused for speculative mutters as interested eyes followed the odd gang in the building. Rex was always the first to greet him, doughy-eyed, wagging butt and tail while a panting tongue hung out his mouth. An irresistible sight that always had Vincent falling to his knees, baby-talking and fluffing up the dog’s coat. 

“Well, look who it is!” The King boomed. Among the clones of black hair and thick chops, whichever one was the King was never in doubt. The King was the one who strutted the best, whipping out the flared pants legs, wearing the most eye-catching flare, and square shades set just a bit low on his nose. An endless array of outfits must have colored his wardrobe a rainbow. “Thought you’d turn him over to the NCR’s law.”

Tandy scowl weakened, turning his eyes wide as his gaze landed on the King, unable to part from the deep V-neck jumpsuit exposing the man’s chest—natural fur and all. 

Vincent shoulders hung mid shrug, “I like a little vigilante justice now and then.” 

“Hah!” The King signaled his entourage of striped shirts and black jean jackets. “Lock ‘em up, boys.” They dragged Tandy off, kicking and screaming of course. The King pulled of his flamboyant lenses, taking on a more serious look. “Don’t suppose you got news about the Van Graffs?”

“Not yet,” Vincent sighed. “I’ve talked with those two running the show. Scouted around the place, but I don’t have the high ground just yet.” Vincent twisted around. His gaze followed Rex wandering over to the next person happy to pet him—Or rather conveniently sitting on a chair where Wayne couldn’t escape the dog’s needy stare. “They aren’t off the shit-list though.”

“Still, I appreciate your help around here,” the King stated, a rare tone of sobriety tinted his words. “And I know my man Rocky is gonna be happy you brought Tandy to us.”

“Anytime,” Vincent assured. “How are things between the locals and the republic’s people?”

The King cocked his head, knocking around whatever thoughts remained inside. “It’s gotten better. Some are still spooked, but that little set up you got with the Followers and that real pretty major…” A bashful smile crept along the man’s face. “It’s easin’ tensions around here.”

“It’s a work in progress,” Vincent said. “Better get back to it.”

“Oh, and Vince.” Vincent turned back to the King. The tinted glasses returned to the bridge of his nose. He squared his arm and raised a closed fist. “Viva New Vegas.”

Vincent mimicked the gesture. “Viva New Vegas.”

The first to greet him was also the last he said goodbye to, and frankly, it was quite hard to part from such unfettered affection. “No, no, you got to stay inside.” The wet black nose pulled away from the door with one last sniff and huff. “Bye, Rex.” 

“So, you been the one working for the King.”

“I’m not working for anyone.” Vincent donned his sunglasses over a squint as he turned to Wayne. “I work with the King. Freeside is bearing the brunt of this conflict. I’m just trying to patch it together. Now, I got appointments on the strip to keep. I’m sure you got one with a shot glass at the Baron’s.”

“Ah, appointments at the tables or slots?”

Vincent shook his head, wishing that was where he was headed. “The suits.”




—




Wiping the cold sweat of his brow, Lawrence pushed through the tent. Noon sprinkled in, filtered by thin green canvas. There was barely any heat to speak of even as high as the sun hung in the sky, yet it still sucked the life out of any under it. Warmth was miles away, just like the boy who managed to cozy him up at a thought. Far, gone, never to be seen again until the dust of the war settled—If he’d still have the ranger that is.

 Between the drills, digging the trenches, and the skirmishes, soldiers, rangers, and support personnel found their breaks wherever they could. Chairs, sofas, and tables cluttered the designated commons tent. A radio perched on a beat-up stand sang the latest tunes. A group of women clung to prime real estate; the corner sofa. Flipping through magazines, laughing, fawning over near and distant sweethearts, setting a relaxed tone for any who came inside. Then there were the quieter types skimming the newspapers, books, magazines, letters from home. Or the ones playing a round of caravan, betting cigarettes, caps, even food, or sharing a story or two. But the reason Lawrence frequented the tent lay upon a hotplate.

“Oh look.” Newsprint clapped open behind him as Lawrence poured a cup of coffee. “More vacation photos from the strip.” A scowl crept on Lawrence’s face. He knew that voice. A glance over his shoulder confirmed his suspicions—Booker. Sprawled at his own table, latest News Vegas print in hand. “What have you been up to with your girl—”

The slicing tear silenced the girls’ chatter and drew the ire of the quieter folk in the ten until it was only the radio singing and unfitting jingle to the stand off. Newspaper halves went limp in Booker’s hand. “I don’t give a fuck if you want to take jabs at me but at least be accurate.” Lawrence gripped the back of the chair and hovered over the younger ranger. Chilly eyes stared down at him, piercing behind the veil of dirt and sweat smeared across his face. Booker’s grin reluctantly faded. “He was my boyfriend. Plenty more to work with, right?”

Lawrence walked back to his coffee, ignoring the stares boring holes in the back of his head—they were other rangers he knew, soldiers he didn’t. It didn’t matter anymore.

 A piercing whistle sang behind him. “Daddy likes ‘em young!” The girls burst into laughter, enticing chuckles to join in around the tent that was mostly back to normal.

“There’s enough shit happening out there—”

The laughs dwindled, turning the focus on Mordecai standing in the tent’s entrance. His brows narrowed, creasing the new wrinkles that appeared since the two came to Forlorn Hope. He shook his head. “Don’t bring it in here.” 

With a second cup in hand, Lawrence followed Mordecai outside. A walk brought them to the edge of camp. Water rushed below, thrashing against a rusty, jagged coastline. Winter wind howled through the canyon, teasing to push either men over if caught off guard. Peering over that cliff sent thrills through Lawrence’s limbs. If it wasn’t the wind, it was his own daring thoughts creeping in. Urging him—Jump. Jump and escape it all. He’d imagine it too. Vividly, fed by things he wished he could forget. 

Lawrence shook the shivers out of himself. Across the river was the reason they were there. Upstream, barely catching a glimpse around the bend, somewhere was a hoard of Legion soldiers. Preparing. Training. Sharpening blades and marching to drums towards Hoover Dam. Guess it didn’t matter where he looked—over the cliffs, upstream, downstream, east or west, you would never escape it.

“You don’t talk much about him.”

A lone brow arched, barely a twitch. Too weary or too apathetic, he wasn’t sure anymore. “If anything, I feel like I talk too much about him.”

“Was what you said true?”

Lawrence looked to Mordecai. Dark sacks dragged down his brown eyes. They used to be brighter, more hopeful. A lot like himself when he was a younger ranger. “Yes.”

“Explains why you were acting so weird.” Mordecai stared in his cup before taking another sip. “You could have told me. Wouldn’t bother me. Wouldn’t have snitched either.”

 “Yep,” Lawrence sighed. “Maybe I should have. People are suspicious anyway...”

“How long?”

“How long I known him? Since early August.” Lawrence shrugged. Both their gazes remained fixed on the view. Studying every little detail of the long rocky canyon. “It just…” A nostalgic sigh escaped. Every memory of his time with the young man played in infinite loops in his head. The good, the bad, everything in between—he wanted to live only in those moments. “It just happened...”

There was a long pause. Mordecai still had his eyes in his coffee when he muttered, “he does look kind of young…” 

“He’s actually—” Lawrence thought the same too when he first saw Vincent. Awe and shock captured on an admirable face beaming up at Lawrence. Not his type, but there was just something magnetic about the boy. “He’s twenty-two by now and I’m a huge asshole.”

Mordecai sputtered. Chuckles turned to laughs as lines deepened on his face. However, Lawrence’s smile weakened. Fading for not just leaving something so wonderful behind, but also because what month it happened to fall on. 




—




“I appreciate you’re still coming,” Julie said. She looked to Vincent, smile brighter than the sun peering down on them as the two walked around the fort. “I know it’s difficult to open up about these things.”

Vincent hummed, feigning disinterest as he watched workers tilling away stone-tough soil. “Men aren’t really supposed to talk about this stuff.”

“I know you don’t believe that.” Julie said, one hand clasped the other’s wrist as she followed Vincent’s gaze. New concrete perimeters divided the asphalt and the plots that would eventually become a garden surrounding the Mormon Fort. “And from what you told me about Lawrence, I don’t think he bought into that either.” Once tents, a few shacks, and sheds cluttered the old parking lot. Now, it had become the center of a new program. A joint operation with the Follower’s and NCR relief efforts. People lined up every day for water, food, and anything they could get their hands on. But it was only one wrung in a very tall ladder Vincent hadn’t even begun climbing. And frankly, there wasn’t enough for everyone in Freeside. 

They stopped inside the walls’ courtyard. The tents here would remain, probably for a while, but for now, it was enough. “It’s ok to take your time,” Julie reminded. Her dimples deepened as her smile returned. “Now, I have all the supplies you requested for Bitter Springs.” She waved Vincent to follow, leading him to a gathering of crates surrounding the flagpole in the midst of the fray. “I personally checked everything.”

Vincent studied the manifest, stealing occasional glances to the crates. Four of them, a bit large, but they’d fit on the wagon. “I have to say, you’ve surprised me here. I wasn’t expecting you to aid the NCR’s efforts.”

Vincent shrugged. “The NCR isn’t the enemy and from the looks of it, they need all the help they can get.” At Julie’s call, loitering guards walked over to the crate and heaved the creates in the wagon. Planks creaked, but the bike refused to give way. Still, Vincent inspected the hook-up—a complex, jury-rigged mess that connected the wagon to his bike. Ugly as sin, but it worked. Hopefully. “Not to mention, Bitter Springs doesn’t have just soldiers to support it.”

“I’ve been wan—”

“Well, look who it is!”

“What are you doing here?” Vincent planted his fists on his hips and stared at the old man. Gripping his belt and a tad bow-legged in his walk, Wayne sauntered over to the two as if invited.

“Happened on an alley fight,” he said through a groan as he straightened his back. “Dragged one of those Kings out the clutches of death and on over here.”

“I hope you’re alright,” Julie said, a caring hand extending to Wayne. 

He tipped his hat. “All good, thank ya, miss.” His burly, peppered mustache stretched over a smile. Then he looked to Vincent, who was rather unimpressed with his feat. “I think you a li’l’ too young to be needin’ a doctor.”

“Thanks for the help, Julie,” Vincent said. “I’m gonna head over to Bitter Springs now.”

“What you going over there for?” 

Julie chuckled as she pulled away from the two and headed back to her never ending work. Vincent’s scarred brow arched, glancing up to Wayne. “To deliver stuff,” he said, feet already on the move to the load in question. A quick inspection of the tires brought him around to the other side. The wagon shifted suddenly and Vincent sprang up. His expression flattened as Wayne settled himself in the open space in the back. 

“Alright, let’s ride.”

“What?”

“Well go on, I’m settled in for the ride.”

“You want to go to Bitter Springs…”

“I thought you was headed that way too,” Wayne twisted around to face Vincent. 

“And just what are you doing in Bitter Springs?” 

“Helpin’ them get their supplies.”

Vincent sighed. Spinning around, he rolled his eyes realizing he finally met his own stubborn match. Still, he couldn’t help but wonder why this old man kept popping up. He seemed harmless. Quiet most of the time, until he conjured up a droll anecdote or witty quip. Vincent had worse company though. 

South of the Valley of Fire, hidden in the hills but reached by old trail markers, lay Bitter Springs. Surrounded by sun-washed stone striped in earthy red and orange bands. Rare greenery sprinkled bone dry soil in the plains but prickly sagebrush carpeted the valley carved by wind carrying the scent of mesquite. It was a two-hour ride weighed down by the wagon and load, but exhilarating, exciting, and awe-inspiring. Like some of those rides he used to take with Lawrence. If only the ranger could see it all…

Far flung from any prying Legion eyes or spears, the NCR installment was built upon the blood and bones of Great Khans. An infamous site of a massacre a ranger once confessed to Vincent. As brutal as the jagged valley walls and as bloody as the rust bands painting the stone in bold strokes. Now, it was a refugee camp. Survivors of Legion expansion from the south housed in tents slapped together from tarps and ratty cloth. Sleeping on hard ground at night, wading through slashing winds in the day. Now with November closing, the desert heat retreated, letting the cold seep in. The wasteland was one of extremes, but if it would be forever had been the question that kept Vincent up lately.

“So, you just gon’ give ‘em the loot?” Wayne asked, slowly but surely making his way out the wagon. A chorus of groans, grunts, and a few hushed curses scraped him off the seat and followed his stiff gait to Vincent. “Nothin’ in exchange?”

“Yes.” Vincent set his helmet on the seat then ruffled his hair back into place. He led the way on a short trail ending at the top of the hill overlooking the camp. Military tents sprawled out on its flat top, some overflowing among the refugees’ abodes below. Idle soldiers gathered around a large fire ditch laid in the center of the command’s claim. More forces lurked in the hills, keeping close watch on the horizon, or among the camp, mingling with the needy folks. 

“Got just about everything you requested,” Vincent announced. Among the crowd, Lieutenant Gilles popped up. Her mousy face was fixed in surprise as she met the odd pair approaching. 

“What? Really?”

Vincent nodded down the hill. “All in the wagon on my bike.” 

“I’ll get some guys to unload!” She spun about to the gathering. Hands clapped, jolting the sleepy men awake all the while barking orders. Once each hopped up from their seat or lean and got to it, Gilles turned back to Vincent. “I can’t thank you enough. This kind of generosity is unheard of lately.”

Vincent shrugged. “Trying to help where I can.”

“Sir—”  A young private appeared, quickly taking to attention and only relaxing at his superior’s acknowledgment. “We lost another one last night.”

“Shit.” Gille’s confident shoulders fell. “Any progress in the caves?”

“We haven’t found anything. Just empty Khan caches.”

“What’s going on?” Vincent butted in. 

“We got a sniper picking us off one by one at night,” Gilles explained. A sneer twisted her face as she shook her head. “Really starting to piss me off…”

“You think they’re hiding in the caves?”

“Well, seems like the most likely place,” she shrugged. “There’s a few entrances up on the main ridge there. All connected to the network the Khans used when they were still living here. My soldiers have been looking, but haven’t found anyone.”

Vincent looked to Wayne. “My knees ain’t gonna like this,” the old man groaned, then muttered, “alright, let’s check’um out.”

While the sun made its rounds, time never penetrated those caves. Cold damp seeped in dirt walls the same way it penetrated bones. Old mines and natural caves bore a winding maze through the hills, but the two men braved the dark unknown, following the map provided by the soldiers and previous tenants. Flashlights illuminated the path ahead, spearheaded by Vincent and a cautious sense of adventure. His careful and slow steps marked safe spots while his light caught a glint of metal—traps. New traps. 

Someone still lived in these caves. In carved out hovels told of Khan remnants. It was the most dangerous creature of them all. Paint adorned pitted and sharp walls, baring their symbols, motifs, and stories drawn in stone with none left to read. 

“Bet it’s some angry Khan,” Wayne pondered, keeping his voice hushed as he followed behind. “Can’t say I blame ‘em though.”

“Doesn’t excuse killing people who had nothing to do with the massacre,” Vincent noted. He paused, waiting for the old man to catch up. “I knew a ranger who was there. He regretted following those orders.” His pistol and flashlight aimed their stare ahead. “Wait.”

“Light ahead…”

Wayne yanked his revolver from its holster. Vincent cut the flashlight and took to a crouch. He approached the chamber’s maw. A fire light warded off the chill. One lone figure sat at its edge, their vague features highlighted in the dark. Their camp was a solitary one, just enough for one person. Then Vincent saw the rifle. 

He cocked his pistol. The click echoed, rounding back to Khan. He jumped up, spinning around and nearly losing his footing. Fear glimmered in weary eyes dulled by tragic years. Lines curved along depressed sockets, stretching out sullen, weathered cheeks. A wiry, disheveled gray beard hid his true weight along with tattered clothes on a withered frame.

“Are you the one sniping the people down in that camp?”

“That camp is built on the blood and tears of my people!” An accusatory finger thrust to Vincent. The old Khan lurched forward, armed only by a dull set of stained teeth and years of rage. “I was there when those people slaughtered us—” Words choked in his throat. Heavy lids batted away the wet shine of his eyes. “I watch my family. My children. My people. Murdered!”

“Your people are raiders. Chem peddlers.” Vincent centered sights on the man’s head. His heart pounded in his chest. Thrills rushed his body. “Hell, half the prostitutes at any given casino tell me they’re chained to a bed everyday because of your people.” A threatening smile budded on the young man’s face at the opportunity for revenge, even if it wasn’t his own. “Do you really think you have the moral high ground here?”

“Hold on now.” Wayne shirked his gimp. He holstered his revolver and raised empty hands. Vincent gave him a deserved look as Wayne cautiously came between the two. “You got your revenge,” he declared, pointing at the Khan. The stranger’s eyes flickered off Vincent, darting back and forth between certain death and a voice pleading reason. “Any more than you already took and you ain’t any better than the people you hate. And you—” Wayne turned on Vincent, solemn faced and stern voiced. “I got my revenge. You got yours. He got his. Shoot him here right now and you’re a hypocrite, boy.”

Vincent’s glare sharpened, glancing between the Khan and Wayne as he suggested the boy lower his gun. “You just want to let him go?”

“It’s the right thing to do, son.”

His trigger finger relaxed. He hated when Wayne called him that. Boy. Son. Drawing on those words as if they were an ace. As if he were the boy’s father. He lowered the pistol and slowly it made its retreat to Vincent’s side. His acute stare, however, remained fixed on the Khan. A quiet threat should the Khan rethink the gift of mercy. 

Instead, the weathered man took a step back. His scowl loosened, brows knitting together as a softened gaze lingered on Wayne. “Thank you.”

“Get out of here,” Vincent ordered. “Go to Red Rock where the rest of your people are. You turn around and I shoot you.”

By the time the two emerged from the quiet trek out the caves, the sun hid behind the Western mountains. Curtained by a black silhouette, yellow faded to orange then smeared red across dying blue. The old man took in a deep breath of fresh air. Thumbs pulled forward the straps of his suspenders as a content smile crossed his face. He looked at Vincent, flat and expressionless, unmoved by the sunset. 

“It takes a big man to walk away from that,” Wayne said. “You did good, son.” He patted the boy’s back, breaking up Vincent’s stone facade. His lips thinned, bitten by teeth only to hold back the emotions the old cowboy’s words managed to stir up in him. Would Lawrence have done the same thing? The way he spoke about the massacre… What gravity that burden must have had to move a strong man to tears. 

Vincent swallowed the knot in his throat. “We’re—” His voice cracked. A quick grumble cleared his throat to save face. He started the hike back down the ridge and threw his voice unnaturally deep, “we’re losing time.”

The gathering around the fire grew at night. Others popped up in the camp as refugees emerged from their tents for a cooler hour. A long line for dinner waited at the foot of the hill, prepared in the army’s tents then brought to eager hands. Vincent’s own stomach growled as he stopped at the beginning of the lines where the lieutenant stood watch. 

“We found a lone Legion soldier,” Vincent announced. “Put him down for you.”

“Finally, some good news. Don’t suppose there’s more than one of you out here. I could use the help.”

The young man chuckled, “sorry, don’t think I got any long-lost twin out here.”

“You’ve really helped us,” she said. “I don’t know if the NCR can properly repay you.”

“That’s alright—”

The sudden flash seared a ring in Vincent’s eyes. Blinking it away, Gilles and Vincent shot knives to the offender. “Moreno!” Gilles barked at the lanky private wielding a bulky camera. “I told you to ask first before blinding people!” The lieutenant sighed as she shook her head. “Sorry about that. Moreno is a journalist or something for the NCR’s newspaper. I told him about how you helped us. Might lift spirits elsewhere, y’know?”

“Wayne and I ought to get back to the city. I’ll be seeing you around.”

When all the lights finally shut off and barely a crack of the neon array crept through the slits of the curtains. Serene quiet fell over the only lived-in suite of the Lucky 38. Quieter than its sole occupant liked. There was something lulling about listening to the gentle breaths of Lawrence next to him. Now there was only his scent staining the pillow. The sighs of the AC pushing out the vents, stopping then picking up again, reminding him of the sleepless hours that passed. Staring at the ceiling, finding familiar shapes and faces in dancing shadows. Like staring up at clouds, sitting on the grass with Lawrence spotting the vague shape of the rock facade fountains. Shimmering red and orange recalled a distant cocktail. The long nights out when they had them. Vincent smiled—that poor ranger had the worst hangovers...

 Tired bones melted on the luxurious cloud. Drifting him off into peace. Bliss where nothing affected him. Where better days found behind him lay. Where mysterious tomorrows couldn’t bother him. All the what ifs carried off inhaling the cologne as if it really were him there—Then the jolt woke up. Urgently, shockingly as if he fell off the tallest point of the tower. 

Mechanical whirring whispered against the door. Another steely claw rapped. He flung off the sheets, grumbling all the way to the door until he ripped it open. It was too early and too late for this.

“Evening, boss!”

“What is it, Victor?”

“Something mighty interestin’.” A metal claw jutted up. “Mr. House wants you in the penthouse right away!”




–




Mordecai plopped next to him on the bench, wracking the morning headache that kept Lawrence from eating, let alone looking at “breakfast”.

“Did you read the news?” He asked, already unfurling the weekly paper for his friend. Lawrence grimaced, flinching at every crinkle like it was lighting in his eyes. “President Kimball is going to give a speech at Hoover Dam!”

“What? Why?” Lethargic mutters fought to escape his lips. Tired eyes drug themselves over to the black and white headline.

Mordecai shrugged, “hell if I know.” 

Lawrence scoffed, hushing his criticism to rake through a watery patty of scrambled gecko eggs—or what he hoped was scrambled gecko eggs. Hungry stomachs poured in. Morning chatter rose in the mess tent and the latest headlines was the topic of the discord—he swore gossip was the only way he kept up the times anymore. Lawrence glanced at the newspaper that Mordecai discarded, more interested in shoveling tasteless garbage down his throat than reading. He scanned the lines. One caught his eye, and he took the paper. 

Allies to Justice, was the title of the quick few paragraphs praising the fortune seekers pruning the weeds of the wasteland, and that of the NCR’s grand plan to employ bounty hunters. Three names in bold print lay below. He only stared at one as any remnants of his appetite scurried. His mouth dried. His stomach wrung like a wet towel. His heart fluttered, stirring a festering mix of emotions as he studied the typesetting. The density of the ink. The minute flaw in the kerning, one slightly raised letter. The curves and dips of its font…

Vincent.